I Do It For The Wobbles.

There’s not much you can do to help anybody, you can only love them hard enough for them to know that somebody else cares for their fuck-ups for when they don’t, so that when they don’t remember to do that for themselves they have that constant reminder that their breathing pattern still counts into circulating the air around you.

Was a long day today. Had two classes, I slept well too; my body just decided to shut down for 12 hours. I have another one of those all-dayer-no-nighters tomorrow, then it’s the weekend. It’s odd how sleeping hours are something you toss around the week rather than have as a constant every day. How fucked up can life be for one to bargain sleep to get a life when they still want to get work down? It’s not right. But then again nothing is right and wrong anymore, there’s what works and what doesn’t, what you can live with and what pushes your buttons. That’s all there is to it really. That’s the one thing to get down in order to ‘grow up’.

I couldn’t find my crows today. The tree – the one I used to watch – had a beautiful little nest of crows up where no other creature could reach. I watched two generations of those from my desk; my tiny little hang out on the remote side of our flat. I had it laid out with all my stuff there for when I wanted to shut out the world and I used to put a blanket and a couple of pillows on top of the desk and just lie there on the ledge and watch em with my laptop or phone or whatever. I watched while the little ones grew up and started to move around the farther branches, then flew around a bit and constantly crashed back into the nearest extension. Then I watched as they moved out and kept coming back every other week. Then they were just gone over the winter. The nest is undone, it’s this little desolate wreck now, slightly tumbling out of place. I wonder what happened to the old couple. They didn’t move that much towards the end. Where do crows go to die? How come I never see any carcasses lying around under trees? Is it nature’s way of telling us she can handle her own shit without our pathetic efforts of cleaning up after it? Hell, we can hardly clean after ourselves, no? I miss my crows.

I sang in the cab today. Loud off-key singing that one only sings in showers because only bathroom tiles can be that accepting. My mom was mortified, I didn’t really care. I sang Nelly’s ‘Just A Dream’ to the cabby’s Laila Mourad – or some other chick – as a background. He didn’t really mind that much. I guess it gets really boring that you just take whatever the hell the people do for kicks, you know?

My maths teacher thought I was spaced out and asked me about a bit in the advanced function he kept on the side of the whiteboard for the psychological effect of it, for when everybody gets a little too out of hand and he just wants them to shut up and listen to him again. I got it right, that felt nice. Needless to say, he couldn’t shut them up afterwards. Fuck yeh.

Everything’s gonna be alright. It’ll be just fine.